Age of Aquarius

I would like to discuss our hostel situation. Formerly known as Nomads Industry but now referred to as Lucifer’s Dungeon, or in Aussie speak it’s the Lou Dun. The midget sinks come maybe up to mid thigh, and if the faucets are even attached to the base (rather than swinging around by their flaccid cords) they squirt water in an amazingly high 360 degree radius, covering everything in the immediate vicinity including the floor, walls, and your pants. There is one stove for the 5 floors of people staying at the hostel. Everyone in the kitchen is always angry and it is a very stressful cooking situation. I can just tell a fire would come from my cooking expertise so we have been doing take out. However the beds are the crowning glory of the Lou Dun. They could simply be described as squeaky, however I feel that is an injustice done to the nuclear bomb of squeaky coils exploding underneath your ass and sending creaky waves reverberating through the entire room every time you move a millimeter. Today will be the third time we have moved rooms in one week. This is due to our experiences in what we now call the room 101 incident. Although I am not yet at a point where I can laugh about the conundrum of last nights sleeping arrangements im sure you will be able to get some good entertainment out of it.

I mean it sounds harmless enough, room 101. Good numbers, nothing superstitious or unlucky. An easy stair climb from the ground floor because the lift is always broken (along with the phones, cinema room, and toilet seats). Upon entering room 101 we find our 6 male roommates flanked by foreign floozies wearing skanky spaghetti strap tops even though it is freezing out. They are boozing and peeling apart vials of weed to roll joints (and they didn’t even offer us any, rude!). The room is filthy. The smell of dirty boy, weed, dirty socks, and some sort of farm animal invades our nostrils. I hear Liz’s breathing pattern change. She is going for the mouth breathe. Smart girl. I get the top bunk closest to the door. Under me sleeps the guy who has a forearm tattoo that says “ROCK OUT”. He has a pink neck pillow on his bed and has made a makeshift tent by draping an extra sheet across the space between the beds. Floozie #1 explains this to me by telling me he has a lot of sex down there. I point at forearm tattoo guy
Juli: No sex tonight, not unless im invited. (laughing ensues)
Forearm tattoo guy: (Laughs in a stupid stoner laugh)
Juli: (laughing too) No but seriously, (stop laughing) no sex!

So the roommates and their circus of skanks roll their joints and leave the room to go smoke and party. Liz and I left to our own devices decide we should shower so at least we will smell good and hope that it will act as a shield against the invading fumes of the room. An hour goes by. We read our daily gossip news, do some Sudoku and I file my nails. Liz plays with her finger blister and listens to Harry Potter 5 on audio book. Finally we are ready for bed. We crawl into the sheets that feel like a paper hospital dressing gown and go to sleep.

All is dark…All is quiet…It is the middle of the night.

Why is my bed shaking? It’s a constant rhythm of a back and forth motion… steady front to back rocking… It’s kinda like… OH MY GOD NOOOO!!!!! I am now fully awake. My eyelids plastered to the inside of my sleeping mask. Completely grossed out and experiencing tinges of nausea. Forearm tattoo is getting laid not 3 feet from where I am sleeping! In a vain attempt to stop the bottom bunk sexing I do a full body heave and roll maneuver, detonating the chorus of bomb coils… All is still… The fan whirrs in the corner. A minute goes by. Have I accomplished my goal? Have they realized that proper bunk mate manners dictate you don’t do it in a bunk that shakes like an earthquake with someone sleeping not 3 feet away? The bed starts shaking again, damn it! Back and forth, up and down until it reaches a rhythm. I can hear her dilapidated moans through my ear plugs. THROUGH MY EAR PLUGS! He joins in with his own dying animal groan. Enough! I strike up a pattern of rolling and heaving movements designed for maximum person-sleeping-on-top-bunk awareness. After about an hour of our sparing I admit defeat. I reexamine my options.

Option #1: Hose them down with the baby oil that is sitting on the foot of my bed from my pre-slumber-lotion-slather, but they would probably regard it as extra lube.
Option #2: Get up and go downstairs to the bar and drink until I have forgotten the reason for coming downstairs. Then however I run the risk of seeing them in the action before I reach the floor, and running up a large bar tab.
Option #3: Listen to soothing ocean noises on my IPod and pretend I am on a cruise ship in a wonderful far away sea.

I opt for option #3, and although I spend the night trying to convince myself I am on a cruise ship my subconscious knows the truth. Eventually it stops. I listen to classical music for sleep, but spend the rest of my night in a constantly agitated fear that it will happen again.

We wanted to get out days ago and go WWOOF on a winery farm not far from Melbourne, but the winery people don’t need help until the 3rd of December and the hostel wont refund our money. So now we are switching rooms again for the third time this week, and on Sunday we are leaving for Adelaide.

More updates after I have had decent sleep.